Time & Tide
by Jael K
Summary: In 1985, a Time Master grabs young Lisa Snart for the Refuge...but there's no way she's going anywhere without her brother. And years later, when Miranda and Jonas die and the Time Council refuses to do anything, Rip Hunter turns to his oldest friend… (Based on what was originally meant to be a throwaway line in "Secret Santa.")
1. Prologue

So, in the third chapter of "Secret Santa," I wrote a throwaway line about how, in a different timeline, the Time Masters could have snatched the Snart siblings to become Time Masters, just like they took the boy who became Rip Hunter.

And then I couldn't get it out of my head.

Well, what's another WIP among friends, right? Please note that this will have CaptainCanary in later chapters ('cause it's me).

* * *

 **Prologue**

It was, like so many other things, Lewis' fault.

Lisa hadn't been so loud, really. She'd just forgotten herself, in excitement over some game she'd been playing with the new doll she'd gotten for Christmas (Len having scraped together enough to hit a sale at the five-and-dime) and her voice had gotten just a little shrill, as the voices of small girls are wont to do. She was only 5, after all.

Lewis, nursing a hangover and planning another doomed-to-failure heist, had snapped. He'd roared into the room, grabbing her by the arm (Len would later find bruises in the shape of his fingertips there) and dragged her to the door, where he'd shoved her out into the January cold in only her pink leggings and My Little Pony sweatshirt, nothing on her feet but slipper socks, too shocked to even scream.

Leonard, who'd been trying to study for a science test, ("Whaddaya doing that for? Not like they're going to give a dummy like you a diploma anyway," Lewis had scoffed) had just started in from the kitchen when he'd seen the scene unfold in front of him. Thinking fast, he'd grabbed both their coats from the kitchen chairs, and darted out the door after her, ducking the blow Lewis aimed his way.

The door slammed shut behind him. He'd heard the lock shoot home.

Lisa had just stared at him, her big blue eyes filling with tears even as she started to shiver. Len, refusing to think of just how bad this could get, had bundled her into her coat, cursing himself for not snatching her boots. After a moment's thought, he'd pulled off his own shoes and made her step into them, glad for once that they were really too small, lacing them up as tight as he could.

Then he'd stubbornly grabbed Lewis' work boots from the back step and pulled them on. He'd get smacked for the theft, no doubt, but time enough to worry about that when they got back inside. It was cold out, tonight, the coldest night they'd had so far, and he knew he had to get them under cover, especially Lisa.

He liked the cold, himself. He'd be OK, he decided with all the false bravado a stubborn 13-year-old boy can muster. He just had to get his sister to safety.

The garage wasn't heated and wouldn't do much good. The neighbors either ignored the Snart kids as much as possible or were the bleeding-heart sort who'd call CPS if they were given a reason. While he'd do that to get Lisa safe and warm as a last resort, Len had heard too many horror stories about foster care and was far too cynical at this point to believe otherwise. Plus, if they were returned to Lewis after _that_ , there'd be hell to pay.

Lisa, shivering despite the coat, wouldn't make it far, but there was a convenience store at the end of the street. With any luck, the friendly young clerk would be working, the one who didn't mind two kids loitering around to keep warm and who occasionally even gave Lisa penny candy—and not the jerk who'd called the cops on Len before (he hadn't even taken anything!) or the motherly sort who seemed to think he was a danger to the little girl so tightly clutching his hand.

All they needed was some luck and some time. Eventually, Lewis would leave, or pass out, and Len could take them back home, pop the lock (at least his father had taught one thing that was useful), and tuck Lisa into bed. Lewis probably wouldn't even remember.

His luck wasn't the greatest. But that's the only idea he had, right then.

* * *

In one timeline, the store might have been closed due to a power outage. They might have died out there, all of Leonard's resourcefulness failing in the face of the deadly temperatures, falling snow, and neighborly apathy.

In another, the friendly clerk might have been working, might have turned a blind eye to the kids huddled at the store's one table, maybe even turned up the heat a little and pushed a few "damaged" bags of chips their way.

In yet another, maybe one of the other two clerks called the police. Maybe they recognized the Snart kids. Maybe one held a grudge against Lewis Snart, and decided to hang his oldest kid with his very first misdemeanor charge, a charge that would soon be compounded by one of Lewis' heists gone wrong and land the boy in juvie at the ripe old age of 14.

Just maybe.

But in this one, a nondescript man returning from a simple mission in 1985 Central City sees the small brown-haired girl wearing her brother's shoes while that same brother, standing in boots nearly up to his knees, studies the interior of the store through the iced-over windows.

There's a half-healed bruise on her cheek, and she's skinny and underfed in a way the man understands all too well, from a part of his personal history that's been nearly forgotten. He hesitates only a moment, then nods to himself, detouring toward the child, a ghostly figure appearing out of the snow to loom over her.

Lisa Snart doesn't see him until it's too late.

He snatches her expertly, one arm around her middle, the other clamped over her mouth. No need to use the knock-out device, he figures. No one will see him in this snow, and all he really has to do is get her back to the ship. Then he can double-check her role in the timeline, make sure they're in the clear.

But there's a lot he doesn't know about this little girl. And the important thing, at the moment, is this: Her brother taught her to fight dirty.

Lisa's eyes go wide, but she's only startled for a second. Then, she chomps down on the man's hand with vigor, following the bite with a determined backward kick to his kneecap. It connects and, while it doesn't hurt that much, combined with the bite it's enough for him to lose his grip.

Lisa sucks in a breath and screams.

"Lenny!" she wailed. "Lenny! Nooooo! My bruh-bruh-brother!"

The older boy's head whips around instantly, a look of horror overtaking his thin features, and stumbling in the snow, he charges toward them. The man, cursing, takes a step back…and slips as Lisa kicks at his knee again. Dipping his hand into his pocket, he pulls out a device, tries to thumb it into what he, in his own mind, calls the "dazzle" setting—one made to distract its target just long enough for a hasty escape.

Maybe it's because Lisa kicks him a third time, still shrieking although there's no one else around to hear her. Maybe it's his own subconscious as he looks into the boy's panicked face. Or maybe it's fate taking a hand.

But for whatever reason, the device slides right into the "knockout" setting.

The kid looks right into it as it flashes…and pitches face-first into the snow, lying still, snowflakes immediately starting to scatter over his dark, curly hair, burying him where he lies.

The girl tries to howl again, but the man has his hand back over her mouth again, and muttering to himself, uses the device on her next. She sags immediately in his arms, letting him catch his breath and figure out what, in the Vanishing Point's name, to do next.

If he leaves the boy in his threadbare coat and too-big boots here in the snow, the child will almost certainly die. And the man has no way to tell where he fits in the timeline, if this is the next mayor of Central City or just a petty thief. And truth be told, the way the little one had cried for her brother had touched even his weathered old heart.

There's only one logical thing to do.

He grabs the skinny teenager, too.

* * *

"The regulations provide for taking unwanted children to train up as protégé Time Masters," he says mulishly an indeterminate amount of time later. "And these two were definitely unwanted."

"One child!" The other man in the room with him whips around, anger in his eyes before he smooths his expression. "Taking siblings raises the chances that someone will notice…"

"By the time I had them back to my ship, they'd already vanished from the timeline," the man retorts. "No one cared, no one bothered to look for them…"

He's interrupted by the third man in the room, who takes an ingratiating tone. "But you have no idea what lay in store for them before that."

The first man shrugs, narrowing his eyes. He's never liked the leader of the Time Council, nor his chief lackey. This is just solidifying the matter.

"Taking one and not the other here would have caused more trouble," he says coolly. "The brother might have been blamed…"

"What do we care? This…"

"He stays."

At that definitive statement, all three Time Masters turn to stare at the tall woman who's standing nearby, facing the windows. Her eyes are fixed on the gangly teenager who's watching his small sister run across the lawn of the Refuge in the sun. The girl had bounced back from her "kidnapping" with the resilience of the young, especially since this place was warm and comfortable, and her stomach was full of good food for the first time in a while.

And her brother, after all, was there besides her.

"But…"

"Madam Xavier…"

"He stays." Mary Xavier turns on them, her eyes implacable, her demeanor cool. "This one is special. "

Druce stares at her another moment, then shakes his head. "He's too old. He'll remember too much of his former life. Won't be malleable."

"Of course, _you'd_ have a problem with that," the first man retorts, anger entering his tone. "I…"

But Mary holds up her hand, interrupting them again. "One of the rights I have as the caretaker of the Refuge is the right of refusal, balanced by the right of acceptance," she says simply. "And I say he says."

The leader of the Time Council draws himself up to match her. "Then we can put back the girl." Druce's eyes are cold. "One at a time. That is the rule."

Mary shakes her head dismissively. "The girl stays too. They're stronger together."

"She's an attachment."

"And you know how I feel about that, Zaman Druce." Mary Xavier turns away, dismissing the leader of the Time Council as if he were still a haughty boy in the Refuge. "They stay. _Both_ of them."

Druce blusters and Druce threatens. And in the end, Druce leaves.

So does the nondescript man. But he, for one, saunters out of the Refuge with a smirk on his face, whistling an off-key tune, snitching a cookie from the kitchen just as he had as a boy.

He pauses for just a moment before getting back in his time ship. "Good luck, kid," he mutters. "Give 'em hell."

Leonard and Lisa Snart will never see him again.

* * *

"Leonard."

The kid in question doesn't jump at his name. He'd seen the woman coming, out of the corner of his eye, and tensed just a little, prepared for whatever she was going to say or do to him. Lisa may think this place is wonderful, the answer to a small girl's prayers, but he's far more cynical, far less willing to trust.

(Even if their kidnapper _had_ brought them here on a ship like something out of Star Wars. Len had tried very hard not to look impressed when he'd woken up.)

Mary, who'd purposefully let herself be heard and seen to avoid startling her skeptical newcomer, sighs to herself as his expression closes off. But after a moment, she smiles a little.

"Leonard," she repeats gently. "Come with me. I have someone I'd like you to meet."

The boy's eyes dart to where his sister is running after her new playmates, under the watchful eye of one of the older children. She'd cast off the chains of her past far better than he, although Mary knows from long experience that some of those issues will still be there, ready to cause problems at the most unexpected times.

"She's fine," Mary tells him. "She's safe here. I promise you that." She pauses. "Far safer than she would be at your…former home."

She nods as he sees him digest her last sentence. "Come with me."

This time, he does.

They walk slowly through the old house, the woman slowing her steps on purpose to allow the boy to look around, to see the genuine contentedness on the faces of the other children they pass. She can understand his caution, can understand it very well considering some of the backgrounds her charges come from. But the sooner he settles in, the more ready he'll be for the trials to come, and all the things he needs to learn.

Finally, after a slow circuit through the house and a trip up a flight of stairs, they enter a room that's comfortable, sunny and lined with bookshelves. She sees Leonard's eyes light up at the sight—followed by immediate caution as his gaze falls on the other boy in the room, one just about his age, who hastily puts down his book and bounds to his feet at the sight of them.

The other boy, nearly as thin as Leonard and a few inches taller, has a sharp face and a shock of brown hair. His eyes are bright and intelligent as he approaches them curiously, and Mary puts a hand on Leonard's shoulder, feeling the hesitation there. He's not someone, she thinks, that's ever had many friends. Too much the outsider, too much the pariah.

Well, perhaps that will change.

"Leonard, this is Michael, my foster son. Michael, this is Leonard—who will also be my foster son. I think…" She smiles for a moment, eyes turned inward, then shakes her head. "I think that you have a lot in common."

The boys stare at each other a moment, a shared background of caution and distrust of their peers (and adults) uniting them.

Then Michael, who's at least had the benefit of years of affection at the Refuge, sticks his hand out. And after another moment, smiles.

Leonard, after a moment's consideration, reaches out too, and shakes it.

And smiles, very tentatively, back.


	2. On One Roll of the Dice

" _Take me away_

 _I don't mind_

 _You better promise me_

 _I'll be back in time_

 _Gotta get back in time…"_

(Huey Lewis & The News, "Back in Time," 1985)

* * *

Years later, at least in his own personal sense of the timeline, the man the Time Masters now call Jack Tyler sits in his own captain's chair, in his own time ship, feet up on the console and nose buried in one of those books he'd been so allured by, all those years ago.

The control panel beeps at him and he glances up at it, blue eyes narrowed, only to register nothing amiss about the display—well, save for the array of alerts the bureaucracy back at the Vanishing Point persists in sending out. Most of them are no more important than "The dining hall at the training facility is closed until further notice," "Those who have not yet received their immunization upgrades are reminded to visit the medical department before departing the Vanishing Point" and "Please refrain from visiting sports 'bookies' while on mission."

OK, that last one _was_ probably directed at him. Not that he meant to pay attention to it.

The cautious, underfed boy had grown into a confident (some said too confident) man, his diminutive stature turned into height, his scrawniness into lean muscle, and the head of dark curls into a close-cropped head of hair that held more gray than was common among the Time Masters. He loathed the Vanishing Point, though (or more than that, the Time Council), and spent more time away from it than most, thereby aging more than those who spent long days there.

It was, he had decided, a good trade.

Like Zaman Druce had once predicted, he remembered much of his past life. Never cared to forget it—it'd made him who he was.

"Forget your old name," the Time Council told the trainees. "It is of the past—and could lead enemies to your younger self."

Well, Len had been perfectly willing to dispense with "Snart." He'd picked his new moniker himself, taking a given name and a surname from two favorite characters from "Doctor Who," but he tended to hold onto "Len," almost never remembering or bothering to use "Jack" with those he was close to. (Athough there weren't many.)

The likelihood of anyone connecting skinny, quiet Leonard Snart with dashing, cocky Len Tyler, he figured, was miniscule anyway.

"Release any attachment to the time you came from," the Time Council said.

He made playlists of '80s music and promptly dubbed his ship "Falcon," a name that'd stuck despite the Time Council's displeasure. (Personally, he thought he'd conceded enough by dropping the "Millennium.")

"Avoid personal connections as much as possible," the Time Council ordered.

He'd not only helped his oldest friend—the man who now went by "Rip Hunter"—elope with former trainee Miranda Coburn, he'd stood up at their wedding. And he contacted his little sister as much as possible, at least on the sly.

That was, however, the one place where he toed the line—a little, anyway. Lisa Snart, now Dr. Eliza Ahrens, captain of the medical time ship Solace, was a rising star. Little Lisa, who'd bandaged and cared for her dolls with such gentleness, had excelled in her medical training and, offered the chance to go on to advanced tutelage, had seized it with both hands. She and her crew now saved lives throughout time, making sure those who were supposed to live, lived—even when the circumstances of their times dictated they shouldn't—and the medical perils of one time never successfully crossed over to another.

(The time pirate who'd tried to set the bubonic plague of the 1340s loose in 1999 Los Angeles had lived to regret his actions. Eliza, like her brother, did _not_ mess around.)

Len knew perfectly well there was no way he'd have been able to provide her with any chance at med school back in Central City. To keep her career on the rise, it was the least he could do to avoid reminding the Time Council that their shining star not only had a brother, she had a brother who was a pain in their collective ass.

Even through that brother got away with it because he was very, very good at what he did.

The panel beeps again, and this time, the noise modulates into the chime of an incoming hail. Len checks the source, grins, and sits up, hitting a button to end his 1985 playlist right as Huey Lewis exhorts his listener not to drive 88.

Then he sits "Doomsday Book" down, careful not to bend the spine, and hits "receive."

"E...leeesa," he drawls, finding her birth name in the name she'd chosen as a Time Master. "Good to hear from you. What's up?"

But Lisa's not smiling at him like she usually does. She's wearing her white lab coat—so she'd been in the middle of something-and her eyes are serious. Almost grim.

"Don't you ever check the alerts?" she asks him, something in her voice that immediately stiffens his spine and makes him narrow his eyes again.

"Why? What's going on?" He glances at the alerts. Gabrielle hadn't flagged anything as an emergency, but...

Lisa takes a deep breath and Len feels a prickle down his spine.

"The Time Council has placed 2166 London under an interdiction," she says carefully. "A Class 5. The timeline's changing, and they're letting it change. And I can't raise Rip on coms either. I don't know if he's there or..."

Len stares at her. "An interdiction? Why?"

But even as he asks, he knows.

"That was one of the safe spots," he said numbly. "One of the ones that didn't fall. Why..."

But why the Time Masters are now letting the city—and presumably the world-fall to Vandal Savage didn't matter. The only thing that does is Rip's family.

Miranda and Jonas.

"Lisa, thank you. Gotta go. Stay safe. Stay away!" He ends the transmission even as she starts to speak again, buckling in and reaching for the controls.

"Gabby! Set a course for London in 2166, Whitechapel, Coburn-Hunter residence!"

"I cannot, Captain Tyler." His AI's voice is regretful. He and Gabby have been paired together long enough that she's developed some individuality-although she doesn't have quite the personality of Gideon, Rip's opinionated AI. (Not that he'd tell her that.) "I cannot override a full interdiction." A pause. "I can tell you, though, that the Waverider entered that time before the Level 5 came down."

So, either Rip will save his family, or fall with them. He knows the man. For Rip, living without them doesn't bear thinking about.

"Back to the Vanishing Point then, Gabby. Either way..."

Either way, he doesn't want to finish the sentence.

* * *

It doesn't bear thinking about, but it's what happens. Len, watching, knows the moment he sees the Waverider lurch to a landing at the Vanishing Point, controlled by an AI that, he believes, may be grieving just as much as her captain.

After a moment, Rip appears in the hatch.

His friend's eyes are...empty, his steps uncertain, his face haggard. Len, dragging in a pained breath himself, crosses the distance to him, giving the man a searching look before dragging him into a hug. They're neither one of them huggers, but it seems appropriate.

Rip shudders, then pulls away. "They're...they're gone, Len," he says numbly. "He killed them. Vandal Savage. He took Whitechapel days ago. I didn't have a clue until Gideon detected a blip in her readings. I got there right before the interdiction but I couldn't...I wasn't...

Len reaches out again, but Rip draws himself up. "I wasn't there in time. But I will be." He starts to walk, the other man falling into step besides him.

"What are you going to do?" Len asks in a low tone. "The council's not going to be sympathetic."

Rage flickers in Rip's eyes. "Maybe not to me. But...how can they let this happen? Savage is a menace. He's destroying the timeline, changing things. Billions are dead now." He rounds on his friend. "They weren't supposed to be. This isn't the way the original timeline was supposed to go."

Len put up his hands. "You're preaching to the choir. I don't know what's going on." He scowls as they start to walk again. "It's not like they're accountable to anyone."

"I know." Rip sighs, a ragged sound. "You're said that, time and again. And you're right."

"Repeat that. I want to savor it." But the joke falls flat, and Len shakes his head, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder as they continue to walk in silence, and the Vanishing Point bustles on around them, no one else mourning one woman and one small boy—or the billions condemned to death with them.

The Time Council is already in session when they get to its chambers, and Len eyes the guards outside, recipients of Time Master Declan's "training." He loathes Druce, but Declan's experiments turn his stomach, even though the man claims his subjects consent.

"You just going to barge in there?" he asks quietly. "Sounds like something I'd do. So I wouldn't recommend it."

Rip takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders. "I'll follow protocol. They'll respond better to that than to…than to emotion. I've spent too long marching to their beat, doing as I'm told, building up goodwill. They'll hear me."

 _But will they do more than that?_ Len doesn't say the words out loud. "You want me to come with you?"

The other Time Master darts a glance at him, then smiles, a sad expression that makes Len even more determined to fix this. Over Zaman Druce's dead body if necessary.

"Thank you, my friend," Rip says, putting a hand on his shoulder again. "But…

"But they don't like me very much. And the feeling's mutual." Len nods, taking a step back. "Well, I'm here. I'll help you plan the…removal…if they give the word. And if…" ( _When_ , he amends silently.) "…this doesn't go well…hell, I'll still help you plan it."

Rip nods, takes another deep breath, and turns and heads for the doors. Len watches him go, then ghosts away into the shadows to wait. Then, leaning against one of the buildings, he allows himself his own brief moments of mourning for two of the few people he'd let past some fairly impressive emotional defenses.

Miranda Coburn, dark haired and determined, possessed of one of the most frightening intellects he'd ever seen and strong in her convictions. She'd despised Druce as much as he did, and had just as many issues with the Time Council.

"One of these days, Len Tyler," she'd told him, amusement in her voice as he danced with her at a London pub after her simple wedding to Rip, "you're going to fall in love too. And I'm going to be there to see it."

OK, so he'd been making eyes at the cute bartender, he'll admit it.

"I'm not a 'love' kinda guy. Lust, sure, that's fun," he told her breezily. "Love? Nah. Too much fun to stay a free agent."

"Mmmhmm." Miranda had smiled at him. "We'll see."

And Jonas, his godson, that inquisitive little boy who reminded him so much of the young Michael Carter he'd met at the Refuge all those years ago. The last time he'd visited, he'd taken the child a toy Millennium Falcon and a Star Wars storybook, the twin to one he remembered reading all those years ago, and promised to watch the movies (the original three first, of course) with him as soon as he could stay more than a few hours. Miranda had rolled her eyes, but assented, and Jonas had been besides himself with glee, "flying" the small ship around their house and asking "Uncle Len" for more stories about his adventures on his own Falcon.

They'd been family far more than Lewis had been.

Lost. Gone. Dead.

Len closes his eyes and vows to help Rip make this right. Then he opens them and watches the doors to the Time Council's chambers and their silent, staring guards.

It doesn't take long.

And when Rip emerges, Len knows it'd gone pretty much the way he'd expected it to.

That horrible shadow is still there. Len's pretty sure it always will be…at least until they find a way to fix this. But there's determination there, too, the knowledge that no one else will do anything about Vandal Savage.

And so he must.

Rip walks away from the chambers without a backward glance, and Leonard joins him without one.

"I'm going to need some research," Rip says simply. "On Vandal Savage. Will you…"

"On it." People were always surprised the hot-shot Time Master had a real fondness (and gift) for research, and if he uses the Refuge libraries, he can visit Mary again. He'd never managed to call her Mother like Rip did (there was a sad-eyed woman in his memories that still held that title), but she meant more to him than anyone other than Lisa.

"I'm consulting Gideon…and leaving now. The council _will_ follow through on its threat to take the Waverider if I pursue this." He glances at Len, then, but if he's expecting surprise at the words, he doesn't get it. "I'm wondering about finding some others to help, too. People from a particular time and place who don't have a bigger role in the timeline, as we've discussed before. Could you look into that, too?"

Len pauses in planning Druce's violent death to nod. "You got it."

"Meet you at the Refuge?"

"It's a plan." He pauses, then, grips his brother's arm. "We'll get them back."

"I know."

* * *

Len tracks Savage's origins even further back than they expect, to 1700 BC Egypt and Hath-Set, a counselor to Ramses II. The tale of meteorites, immortality, and unrequited love he finds makes him mutter and recheck his sources, irritated with the notion of an explanation as nebulous as "a curse."

The tale also unexpectedly leads him to 2016, though, and a pair of people with connections to Savage. And 2016 is, notably, a time of heroes—an excellent time to find the sort of lost legends they're looking for.

But before the two men can chart out their plan of attack, the Time Council sends Len on a mission to protect Princess Elizabeth in 1554, allegedly from a plot to make sure she never ascends to the throne of England. The mission drags out, the young princess and then queen beset on all sides, and when Len finally drags himself back to the Refuge, a few new scars on his body and a renewed distaste for political plotting in his heart, he learns that the time stream hadn't allowed him to return before Rip left. Alone.

Later, he'll learn about his friend's weeks of starvation in a prison cell, followed by countless futile, heartbreaking attempts to extract Miranda and Jonas from London, and he'll attack the practice dummies in the Falcon with such rage that Gabby has to completely replace them.

He stands outside again, staring down the guards, as Rip makes one more, desperate plea to the Time Council. And he falls into step with him, again, as he leaves the council chambers.

"You're going to take the Waverider back. And you're going to go get them, aren't you?" Len says quietly after a moment as they walk. It's not a question. "This group of people we've been researching, including Chay-Ara and Khufu. The ones from 2016."

"Yes." Rip flicks a glance his way. "Will you join me? I'm not entirely happy with my choice of…the criminal element…and you…"

"And my skills overlap that a bit." Len snorts, a little amusement in the sound. "Of course. But I want to maintain…plausible deniability as long as I can. I disabled the trackers on the Falcon long ago, but if the council thinks it can pull my strings a bit longer, it can only help us." He stops as the ships come into sight. "Go and find them. I need to speak to Li…Eliza…and I promised Mary I'd update her. It's better if we don't leave together."

He watches his friend walk away, heading for the Waverider, sorting out his misgivings about Rip's plan and wondering, just a little, about the motley crew of heroes whose lives the other man intends to upend.

"Rip!" He says suddenly, raising his voice just a little. "I know what you were thinking. But don't lie to them, these people."

The other man frowns at him, motion arrested. "Then why on earth would they even agree..."

"Tell them the truth. That they don't make a difference to the future now, but that can change." He thinks of the words Mary had said to him, his first day in the Refuge. "They have a chance to be more."

Rip states at him a moment longer, then gives him a jerky nod.

"January 21, 2016, in Central City. I'll be there."

* * *

"That's going to be a problem." Time Master Dalcian says worriedly, staring out of the tower as they watch the two men walk toward the ships.

Zaman Druce turns away with an irritated shrug. "Tyler? Of course he is. Since when has he been anything but?" He shakes his head, crossing to his desk. "That loose cannon is going to be the death of me. I told Mary Xavier we should throw him back in the trash he came from."

Dalcian gives him a perplexed look. "I mean with the…"

"I know what you mean." Druce sits, pulling some papers toward him. "Has Master Donato made any progress in figuring out why the issue exists?"

"Not as of his last report."

"Hmmm." The leader of the Time Council looks up, and even his chief aide shivers at the look in his eyes—although he takes great care to make sure Druce doesn't see it. "For now, we keep him busy. We watch and wait. He may still be useful. We make sure he remembers we have his sister in our control.

"And, if necessary, we take him out."

* * *

 _"Don't bet your future_  
 _On one roll of the dice_  
 _Better remember_  
 _Lightning never strikes twice..."_


	3. Come and Turn the Tide

_What you gonna do when things go wrong?_  
 _What you gonna do when it all cracks up?_  
 _What you gonna do when the love burns down?_  
 _What you gonna do when the flames go up?_

(Simple Minds, "Alive and Kicking," 1985)

* * *

"You know this is a bad idea." Lisa's voice isn't disapproving. She knows better. Instead, it's resigned. And that's a tone she's become very used to taking with her older brother over the years.

"It's Miranda and Jonas, Lis." Len watches her intently through the viewscreen on his ship. He'd rather see her in person, but the Solace is actually keeping an eye on an untimely outbreak of typhoid fever in 2022. "You know them. You helped deliver Jonas! I can't let Rip deal with this on his own."

"Yes, but…" The professional time ship captain nibbles her lip like the little girl he remembers, then sighs. "This is why we're not supposed to have attachments," she tells him with resignation. "You know that."

"I think the Time Council would be better if they did." Len holds up his hands when she starts to retort. "Yeah, yeah, I know." It's an old argument. "But I'm helping. I'll do my best to keep my nose clean. Clean-ish. I just wanted to update you."

That gets him a smile. "Thank you," Lisa tells him. "Now…don't tell me more. What I don't know, I can't tell."

She might act like she's a rule-follower, these days, but that's the sister he remembers. Len grins.

"That's it," he tells her, leaning back in his chair, "be a rebel. Fight the evil Empire."

Lisa smiles again, but the expression is a little torn, and Len's already regretting his quip. When she starts to speak again, there's something sad and regretful in her tone.

"Len," she says, using his real name, which she rarely does, "someone needs to protect time. And they _saved_ us."

 _Yeah, to do their bidding and their dirty work_ , he thinks. But all he says is, "I'll be careful."

They both know he probably won't.

* * *

He keeps his stop at the Refuge brief. Mary is enigmatic as always, but Len continues to think she knows more than she's letting on, both about Rip's quest and the Time Council's decision to ignore Vandal Savage's actions. Still, she's one of the very few people he trusts. He gives her a few new time-travel books he's found; they chat about the newest children added to her flock.

When he leaves, she doesn't ask where he's going.

* * *

"Welcome back onboard, Captain Tyler. It is good to see you."

"Good to hear you, Gideon." Len pauses in the bigger ship's hatch. He always considers it only polite to interact with the AIs, and Gideon has quite the personality. They get each other. "How's he doing?"

A pause. "As well as can be expected," the AI finally says, quietly. "This…plan, it is letting him maintain hope. I'm not quite sure of the wisdom of it, but there is that."

"Hope's a powerful thing," Len acknowledges.

"Indeed."

The much smaller Falcon is parked next to the Waverider in this deserted lot in Central City, both ships cloaked and waiting. Len knows that Rip issued his invitation to eight people, all from this time, presumably chosen from the dossiers he'd assembled, but the other man has done some of his own research, too. There could be additions.

"Ah! There you are." Rip is striding down the hall, and the energy about the man convinces Len that Gideon is precisely correct in her assessment. He's using the hope of this gambit to keep himself going. "They should be here soon. _If_ they're coming, but I think they will." He nods at Len. "You were right…"

"There are those words again."

Rip ignores him. "… I think it was the correct call to tell them the true nature of the mission. None of them liked the notion that time would forget them."

"Not surprised. These hero-y types generally…"

"Captain Hunter, Captain Tyler," Gideon cuts in, "there is a group of eight people outside. They're rather obviously wondering if they're in the right place. It's time."

Eight. So all of them had agreed to come. The two men exchange a glance, then start for the hatch.

Once they're there, Rip waits more or less patiently for it to open, but Len leans out just a little, still concealed by the Waverider's cloak, and studies them. The inventor, the hawks, the…

"Aaahh," he breathes, watching. "You _did_ invite the assassin. And she agreed."

"Of course. You recommended her mostly highly…" Rip cuts his gaze to his friend, then sighs. "Oh lord," he mutters. "This is part of your…fetish...for dangerous people, isn't it?"

"No. Yes…maybe." He tilts his head to consider the group. "Wait. Who's the…"

But Rip's heading down now, lifting his voice to greet the people he's promised to make legends, and Len's left standing in the ship. He's pretty sure the Waverider's captain means him to stay and watch, rather than putting himself out there and confusing the matter.

He shrugs, and follows anyway.

"…you imagine what a time ship would look like in, say, Victorian England?" he hears Rip explain, just as he uncloaks the Waverider. "Holographic indigenous camouflage protection."

"Just call it a cloak, Rip. Makes more sense and is a lot less bombastic." Len stops just behind him, eyeing the group with interest. "Well, isn't this an interesting lot."

He hears Rip sigh, but the other man doesn't even bother scolding.

"Stop looking at my crew like you're trying to decide who to seduce," he mutters, under his breath.

"Nah, I figured I'd just seduce all of 'em." Len tilts his head, trying to see if any of the group heard them. From their expressions, probably not. "Introduce me?"

Rip pinches his nose, but sighs and accedes.

"Ladies and gentleman, Time Master Captain Jack Tyler," he says with resignation, raising his voice and waving a hand. "A friend of mine."

"I thought you said _they_ wouldn't help you." The assassin is staring at him. He grins at her. She rolls her eyes.

Rip catches the byplay and rolls his eyes too. "He's..."

"He's not _they_ ," Len interrupts. "I might sortof work for them, but I don't like the Time Council much. And the feeling's mutual." He shrugs. "Can't be here for everything, but I'll help when I can."

Another in the group—the inventor—opens his mouth to comment or ask a question, but Rip's already herding them toward the ship, and they go willingly enough. Well, Len can't blame them. He still remembers the first time he saw a time ship. (Granted, it'd been memorable, in part due to the abduction and nearly freezing-to-death part of it.)

He waits for the others to proceed onboard—lifting an eyebrow at how the professor has to get help with the unconscious kid-and then follows, smirking as he realizes that he's only a few paces behind the assassin. Sara Lance, he should use her name. He admires the view for a few moments, then catches up to walk beside her.

"Even if you're a broad-minded individual, this is a lot to take in," he drawls. "How are you doing?"

Suspicious blue eyes glance at him. She doesn't stop walking. "Why are you asking me?"

"You seem to be the only person on this boat who doesn't…" He pauses, choosing his words with a little more care than he'd originally planned. "…have powers or a dozen doctorate degrees."

Sara snorts, pausing to watch him. "Actually, I was dead for a year."

He knows that, actually—and it doesn't really contradict his observation. "Hey, I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Yeah, I can tell by the way you're staring at my ass." But there's a faint flash of humor in her eyes as she turns away-and granted, he _had_ been staring at her ass. Len grins as he follows her, enjoying the view, but enjoying the banter even more.

 _Oh, this is going to be_ fun _._

When they've all filtered onto the bridge area, though, he wanders away, needing to study the others in this so-called team they've created. The inventor is wide eyed, as is the professor. The kid is still unconscious, deposited in a jump seat, and, oh, there's certainly a story there. The hawks are inspecting the ship, too, and Len studies them, intrigued at this chance to see two of the characters in the nearly 4,000-year-old story he's been researching.

"Tyler, hmmm?"

At the amused voice, he turns, finally face to face with one of the few people he hadn't recommended for this team—someone he knows nothing about.

The third woman in the group is probably more striking than the other two, in purely aesthetic terms, a tall redhead with velvety, shrewd brown eyes and a lovely complexion that's a good bit darker than most redheads he's known. She's older, too, probably around his own chronological age, and damn if it doesn't look fine on her.

She's gorgeous, actually, and she exudes confidence, something that's usually an attraction for him. But Len dislikes her on sight, a feeling he doesn't even have a name for running down his spine, distrust and an odd recognition, and he has to force himself to give her a cool smile.

"Alexa Azeri," she says, smiling back at him, something just a touch predatory in that smile. "I'm a…shall we say, I'm an acquisitions expert."

Len nods to her, murmuring something vague. So, this is the criminal element that Rip had mentioned being uncertain of.

"And you?" he asks, looking at the big, scarred man next to Alexa, a man who hasn't uttered a word, the only other person here he knows nothing of. There's a weird pull there, too. Not an attraction—bruisers aren't his type—but a feeling like he should recognize the other man.

"He's just hired muscle," the woman interrupts, putting a hand on Len's arm. "My…bodyguard."

Len can't handle the familiarity. Or the attitude. He pointedly pulls his arm away and continues to focus on the big man.

"And _you_?" he asks the…bodyguard…again, pointedly.

The guy blinks, then glances at Alexa, whose face is now carefully blank. Then he looks back at Len.

"Mick," he says shortly, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Mick Rory. I…like she said. Bodyguard."

Len accepts it…for now. "Pleased to meet you, Mick," he says, pleasantly, ignoring Alexa's attempt to talk to him again as he turns away.

It's probably a mistake. But he hasn't survived this long as a Time Master by ignoring his instincts. And those instincts are screaming at him to stay the hell away from Alexa Azeri.

Rip's been holding forth, as he tends to do, and introducing most of the team to Gideon. Now, he's explaining how Savage's movements have been hidden in time, and detailing their first destination. Len, listening, nods at the mention of St. Roch.

"I'll meet you there," he cuts in as his friend pauses. "I need to check…stuff. I'll put the ship down near wherever I detect the Waverider."

"You have another ship?" the professor queries, interest in his tone. "Like this one?"

Well, Len can never resist a chance to brag about his ship. Not matter how much Rip laughs at him about it.

"Yes," he says, just a tad proudly as the other Time Master rolls his eyes, then decides to make a small verbal jab. "Well, faster. Smaller. Sleeker. Name's The Falcon."

"Falcon?" The inventor, Ray Palmer, perks up. "You mean like…?"

Len points at him. "Someone on this ship with some culture! Yes, just like." He looks pointedly at Rip. "See. Some people get it."

His friend gives him a weary look. "Are you quite done?"

"For now."

* * *

It's not that he doesn't trust Rip. He does, with his very life. But sometimes the man just doesn't…think.

(He conveniently ignores any number of ironies in that thought.)

It doesn't take long for Gabby to pull up information on both Alexa Azeri and Mick (Michael, actually) Rory. Len leans back and drums his fingers on the console, reading.

Aside from the very basics of family and origin, all of it unremarkable, almost all the information about the former involves her line of work. Alexa doesn't seem to have a set base of operations, although she's been associated with jobs in both Central and Star cities. Jewels seem to be her favorite, but technology is a very strong second. Her MO is all over the place, too…classic scams and cons, heists that rely on teamwork and skill, even the odd smash and grab.

One thing there's a steady string of, though, are fall guys, and girls. Oh, she has a rap sheet, an extensive one, and she's done time in fine institutions from juvenile hall right up to Iron Heights. But almost every time, there's someone else involved, someone on whom Alexa has promptly given evidence—in return for other considerations, of course. And at least a few times, her partners have wound up with a bad case of dead as she made off with the loot.

You'd think she'd have a hard time finding partners, after all this, but it seems there's always someone in line to buy her story, and promises of an easy payoff—and the assurance that she sees something in them, for whatever reason.

A user. He knows the type.

Lewis' face rises in his conscious memory for the first time in ages, and Len shakes his head roughly, willing the image away. His father is long since dead, having mouthed off to the wrong boss in Iron Heights after yet another heist gone wrong, and neither Len nor Lisa mourned him when they found out.

Oh, yes, he'll keep an eye on Alexa Azeri. If only because she brings up some bad memories.

Mick Rory is from Central City, and only a few years older than his own chronological age. Len sits forward, reading the file with interest. The few notes on speculated abuse raise the hairs on the backs of his arms—too many reminders of the past, too quickly—but he continues, taking in the tale of arson and juvie and all sorts of potential gone, the descent from petty theft into robbery and murder.

Because what else was there left, in a world that couldn't forgive a scared kid for one horrible, irreversible mistake?

Could have been him. Could have been him, so easily.

And if he's not wrong, reading between all these lines, Rory has a bit of a death wish, so much so that he's not sure how the man has stayed alive all these years.

There doesn't seem to be much connection to Azeri there, but Len's practiced eye notes a few instances where they've been in roughly the same place at the same time. Not long-time partners or anything like that. Perhaps it is as the woman says…he's hired muscle.

He's pretty sure it's not that simple.

Or innocent…at last on Azeri's part.

By the time he does this, follows the Waverider to 1975 St. Roch, and saunters back onto the bigger ship, the newbies have worked through their assorted issues with time-travel effects and are more or less sorted. The kid, Jefferson "call me Jax" Jackson, is awake and _not_ happy with his Firestorm counterpart, and while Len can't really blame him, he knows they needed both halves of the superhero for the greatest effect.

He's not going to _say_ that, though.

There's more friction between Rip and the team, too.

"You're benching us?

"This mission doesn't require your particular skill set."

"Meanin' you don't need anyone killed, maimed or robbed," Rory rumbles, then glances at Alexa as if worried she'll be annoyed he's speaking out of turn.

But the woman is focusing more on Len, now that she's noticed she's back on board, and he's just not sure he has it in him to be charming. He sidles, instead, toward Sara, who looks faintly amused.

"Sure it's a good idea to leave these two unsurprised on a time machine?" questions the inventor, Palmer, just a touch too loudly.

"Hey, haircut. Deafness wasn't one of the side effects," the big man rumbles, but he does it under his breath, and Len snorts in amusement. The other man glances at him, the corner of his mouth quirking up just a little. There's a moment, just a flicker, of connection.

Then Alexa's at Rory's side, whispering something in his ear, and the man's face goes blank again. Len fights back a moment of rage (he doesn't know what's being said, and his imagination might be overly active given what he's read of them), but before he can say anything, Rip's grabbing the sleeve of his jacket and dragging him over to a corner of the bridge, looking harried.

Granted, that's pretty normal for Rip.

"You'll stay?" his friend hisses, eyes pleading in a way that belies the almost aggressive tone of the words. "While we head for the university?"

Len blinks at him. "You mean, will I babysit them? _Me_? Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No, actually, but…" The other man sighs. "You're going to say you told me so."

"I told you so. OK, now it's done with." He narrows his eyes. "What are you regretting already?"

"Ms. Azeri and her compatriot. I…" Rip sighs again as Len smirks at him. "OK, yes, yes, I should have stuck with your recommendations. But none of them with this…skill set…were as easily findable, and…"

Something about that seems off, but Len lets it go. "What about them? It's not like Gideon's going to let her get away with anything."

"I know." Rip eyes him. "Just see if you can find out a little more about them. And not just her. I didn't want the other man—Mr. Rory—on board at all, but she insisted she needed to bring 'muscle' and, frankly, the team could use that too. But I haven't been well pleased with what I've been able to learn."

Len shrugs, although he has every intention of learning more about them too. "Give the guy a break," he tells his friend. "Gotta feeling."

"The _arsonist_?" Rip blinks at him. "Are you serious?"

Len claps him on the shoulder as they turn back to the others. "Brother, we both entered the Refuge as petty thieves. Arson's the least of what we could have gotten up to if things had been different." He lowers his voice. "I'm more concerned about her."

Rip starts to retort, but then stops as Alexa moves toward them, interest sparking in her eyes at their quiet conversation.

"I'm more than happy to stay behind on this _fascinating_ ship," she purrs, eyeing them both. "Could I, perhaps, get a tour? I'd really like to learn more...about your ship, too..."

Now she's looking right at Len—his brush-off from earlier apparently not having registered. He stares back at her, nonplussed, even as he senses Rip making a rapid escape with the hawks, Professor Stein and Palmer.

He's always erred on the side of charming everyone and letting things sort themselves out later, but apparently bluntness is the order of the day.

"Not interested in what you're selling," he tells her flatly, folding his arms, eyes cold. "You ain't my type."

Startled for just a moment, the redhead raises her eyebrows. Then she glances over at Rory and smiles before glancing back at him.

"Ah," she says knowingly. "You like men."

"Some men," Len agrees. "Some women. Not you. So, stop wasting your time and maybe we can manage a decent working dynamic."

Her eyes widen at his bluntness, a flash of something that might almost be hurt in them before they narrow again.

"Got it," she snaps back. "You don't know what you're missing. And you just might regret it at some point."

Len lets her have her comeback, watching as she turns on her heel and heads off. Then he sighs, leaning back against the wall and watching the kid—Jax—and Rory mess around with the viewscreen. (Although Rory's clearly wondering if he should follow his...whatever...)

"Think you might have irritated her."

He glances to the side, sees that Sara has wandered over to lean against the wall next to him. Her gaze is considering, and he bites back innuendo. Not the time. Unfortunately.

"You saw that, huh?" Len says instead, turning toward her a little. "Yeah, probably. But I don't like it when people treat other people like property," he says shortly, meeting her eyes. "I just…don't."

( _The kids were screaming, crying, and he was supposed to just turn and walk back to his ship, leave the timeline as it was meant to be, ignore the cries..._ )

He ruthlessly pushes the memory of that mission back down again. There's a flash of understanding in Sara's eyes, though, and she merely nods, watching the other woman, who's moved to inspect the captain's console. After a moment, she sighs ruefully, muttering quietly, "I don't like this."

"Hmm?"

The gaze she darts at him has a hint of humor. "Oh, you know. The old trope that when there's more than one woman in a group, they always get all catty with each other and fight instead of backing each other up. I hate that. And she's gorgeous, so I sort of wish I felt differently, but…"

"Ah." Len considers. "Well, she's tripping every alarm bell I have, too. I don't know why." He shrugs it off, and grins at her. "If it makes you feel better, fight the trope. Make friends with bird girl."

Sara snorts, but nods. "I plan to. Although her boyfriend's an ass."

"He kinda is, isn't he?" He can't help but lean toward her, draw to her as much as…more than…he's repulsed by Alexa. "I've been looking into the whole Savage thing and everything else for Rip since…well…and not every incarnation's that bad. It seems to depend on…"

But Sara's eyes are considering again. Maybe a little wary. "So, you know all our backgrounds?"

Len considers prevarication, then goes with honesty. "Yeah. I recommended most of you." He tilts his head and gives her a look through his lashes, attempting to distract her. "Especially you. You're badass."

His admiring tone gets a smirk, quickly concealed. "And you're a flirt," she counters, watching him. "But…most of us?"

"Aaaaand you pay attention," he adds, not missing a beat. "I like that too." He sighs as she levels a glare at him. "I'm not sure where Rip got the idea for Redheaded Trouble over there, but not from me."

"And the 'hired muscle?'"

Something in her tone says she's sensed something off there, too. "I don't know him either." Len makes a quick decision. "But Rip wants me to find out more. And I don't get a good vibe out of whatever she's got on him."

"Hmmmm. And what do you have in mind?" Sara whispers back. But even as she asks the question, though, Len sees a flicker in her eyes, and leans forward, intrigued.

"What are you thinking?" he asks in a low tone.

She tells him. And Len leans back and stares at her.

"I like you," he tells her, utterly seriously. "I mean, I _really_ like you."

Sara's lips twitch again. "I can't imagine Captain Hunter will be very happy about it."

"Well, Rip's not here." He smirks. "And I am. I say we do it. Gideon?"

The AI's tone is low and localized to the corner they're standing in, making Sara startle, just a tiny bit. "Yes, Captain Tyler?"

"Rip's got all his protocols with you locked down tight, right?"

"Of course. But I don't know that this is a good idea. Captain Hunter would probably not approve."

 _Eavesdropper_ , he mouths to Sara, then speaks aloud again. "As I said, Rip's not here. I am. _We_ are." He nods to Sara, winking, and starts sauntering into the room, hands behind his back, thoroughly ignoring her, or appearing to.

After a few moments, he hears Sara speak.

"Am I the only one who could really use a drink?" she says, raising her voice just a little and sounding the perfect mix of bored and slightly exasperated.

Len hesitates a bare second, then spins on his heel theatrically and grins at her.

" _Ex-_ cellent idea."

* * *

 _Who is gonna come and turn the tide?_  
 _What's it gonna take to make a dream survive?_  
 _Who's got the touch to calm the storm inside?_  
 _Who's gonna save you?_


End file.
